I tapped the link, and the headline seared into my retinas.

[General Roman Armstrong and the military’s darling Sabrina Cole have officially gone public! The power couple’s romance is off the charts!]

Below the text were two photos. In the first, Roman stood stiffly in his dress uniform while Sabrina stood on her tiptoes to pin an honors medal to his chest. In the second, the two were locked in a tight embrace at the training grounds, the blurred silhouettes of fighter jets screaming through the sky behind them.

Roman’s caption was brief but excruciating: [Introducing my lover, @SabrinaCole.]

Sabrina’s reply was saccharine sweet: [“For the rest of our lives, we shall guard our home and country together, my General~”]

I thought being reborn meant I could finally handle this with a cool head, but seeing it with my own eyes still felt like being riddled with bullets. I had spent seven years waiting for a public acknowledgment that he had now handed over to someone else so carelessly.

Joseph, my editor, was shaking with rage over the phone.

"Because of what you said at the gala, everyone is whispering that Sabrina is a homewrecker. Roman is doing this just to clear her name! It’s absolute madness! Everyone knows you’re the one who’s legally his wife..."

"Joseph," I interrupted, my voice so steady it startled even me. "Has my transfer request to the International Military News Bureau been approved?"

Silence stretched across the line. "Are you really going to walk away from your position here and head overseas?"

"My mind is made up." I stared out at the flickering city lights. "Seven years ago, I gave up a spot at the International Bureau for Roman. I’m done letting him dictate the trajectory of my life."

Roman and I were childhood sweethearts, having grown up together at the Command. We had gone from awkward, scruffy kids to battle-hardened adults. After both of our parents were killed in the line of duty during a peacekeeping mission, we became each other’s only tether to this world.

When we ran missions together, he would always charge ahead of me, tearing his tactical vest to ribbons time and time again. When he was critically wounded shielding a comrade, I stayed by his bedside for three days and three nights, refusing to close my eyes.

On my twenty-fifth birthday, I received an invitation to join the International Military News Bureau—my lifelong dream. That day, Roman didn't say a word. He just held my hand, his eyes rimmed with red, standing vigil with me through the entire night.

The next morning, I turned down the offer and signed up to be a frontline war correspondent instead.

War zones are brutal. You’re constantly dancing on the edge of a blade, exposed to incoming artillery, sniper fire, and the stench of death. A fellow soldier once asked me if it was worth it. Back then, looking at the notes Roman would leave for me before every deployment, I thought it was.

But now...

The sharp, distinct ping of a notification shattered my memories.

It was Roman.

I hesitated for a heartbeat, then pressed "Accept."